


hard break

by arsenicjay



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M, Oral Sex, Past Relationship(s), Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-06-29 09:42:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15726864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arsenicjay/pseuds/arsenicjay
Summary: Familiarity breeds not contempt, but lingering dependence and Akaashi eventually starts to wonder when giving in became so easy.Bokuto doesn't give up. Akaashi doesn't let go. What a pair they make.





	hard break

**Author's Note:**

> Set ambiguously several years post-high school, where Bokuto and Akaashi are still playing competitive volleyball.

It's not for lack of trying, Akaashi thinks, even as he stumbles back and yanks his shirt over his head. 

His back hits the locker with a dull slam, barely moments later. Bokuto is already at his neck, nuzzling into the crook of his jaw and leaving heavy, hot breaths that trace the curve of his ear. Rough palms grab at his waist in an awkward fumble, but he recognises the faint tremour as eagerness rather than nerves. 

Akaashi's own heart races, beating a tattoo against the underside of his ribcage. It's a victory high, Akaashi knows, that floods his veins and leaves him thrumming. They'd won the match. Had marched out of the stadium with the roar of the crowds in their ears and heady rush of pride flushing their cheeks. But here they are all the same, in the dark, cramped locker room sharing panting, stolen breaths between them. 

"C'mon," Bokuto mutters, nipping at Akaashi's pulse as if he can taste the mix of endorphins and reckless arousal that flutters under his skin. "C'mon, I want this, I know you want this—"

They've run these ropes, rehearsed this script, far too many times to feign naivety at this point. Even so, Akaashi still tries. A strained, breathless, "We should stop—" but then chapped lips press against his own, and Bokuto knocks his head back against the locker as if he's trying to kiss the words right out of his mouth. 

It works. Bokuto swallows the soft, desperate noise Akaashi makes, and any semblance of rationality he might've had evaporates. His mind spins too wildly for arguing to sound like a good idea, not when Bokuto finally pulls away and fervently says, "Not now, not now, come on, please Akaashi—"

It's not for lack of trying, because they _have_ tried. Once, twice. Three times, four. The years bleed into each other, and then it's five and six. Every time, they slot together like well-worn, ill-matched puzzle pieces; it works but then it doesn't, and Bokuto's impulsive energy and soft heart falter to Akaashi's fading patience and sharp edges. When harsh words bleed into exasperation, frustration, and when Bokuto finally lets his hand go and stares past his shoulder as he says, "Let's break up," Akaashi only breathes out in relief. 

Sometimes, it's a momentary lapse in judgment: Bokuto says, wistful, "I miss you," even as he reaches out to play with Akaashi's fingertips, urging him closer, and Akaashi steps forward like coming home, long before he admits, "I do too." He doesn't think too long on how Bokuto buries his face into his neck. 

These times, they drift apart. Bokuto sends him sorry glances for days, and Akaashi forces himself to remember that this doesn't work. They never have. 

Other times, Bokuto drags him into an empty stadium locker room, and with desperation tipped in his voice, he says, "Let's....let's try dating again, Keiji, I still. I still—" before abruptly breaking off and Akaashi kisses him before he has to hear the words that Bokuto doesn't have. 

These times end when they slink away to lick their wounds. Leaves them cold, like water that flows into the empty spaces between them and slowly freezes over until something cracks. "I want this to work," Bokuto will say later, frustration hardening his expression. Akaashi watches him pull his shirt back over his head. Watches the flex of Bokuto's spine, the way eight faint lines have formed angry welts across his shoulder blades. "Why doesn't this work? I want you so much sometimes— " 

(Familiarity breeds not contempt, but lingering dependence and Akaashi eventually starts to wonder when giving in became so easy.

Bokuto doesn't give up. Akaashi doesn't let go. What a pair they make.)

Now Bokuto's hands run a restless pattern up along the sides of Akaashi's waist, a caress that veers the line between greed and possessiveness, and Akaashi sucks in a breath. Holds it and stifles a shudder when Bokuto's fingers dance across his stomach like pinpricks of heat. Hips grinding forward of their own volition, Akaashi exhales loudly when his cock meets the length of Bokuto's thigh, pressed between his own legs. 

He's hard already, so hard. He looks up and sees victory and hunger twined in the grin stretched across Bokuto's face. For a moment, he wonders when he shifted from conquest to prize, but then Bokuto nudges his thigh higher, spreads his legs wider and Akaashi doesn't care anymore. 

"Down," he says, forcing the words through his own gritted teeth. He pushes at Bokuto's shoulders, his grip slipping on the sweat that collects along the curve of Bokuto's collarbone. "Down, please."

Relief rushes through Akaashi as sharply as the arousal that curls in his belly when Bokuto obliges, sinks to his knees as easy as grace and noses at the half hard bulge in his volleyball shorts. He feels the drag of Bokuto's hands, hooking under the waistband, fingernails scratching faintly into the skin of Akaashi's lower stomach when he pulls. 

Then Bokuto sucks him down, envelopes him in hot, wet warmth and Akaashi has to bite back a shaky groan that borders on grateful. 

Bokuto sets a fast pace, works his throat around Akaashi's cock and vocalises pleasure enough for them both. Akaashi feels the rumble of Bokuto's resounding moan, trembles under the slick rasp of Bokuto's tongue when it runs along the ridge of his frenulum. A trail of saliva and precum drips down, past the base of his cock and onto the timber floor. 

Akaashi jolts when he feels a hand squeeze his balls, once, before nudging them aside. "Wait," he starts urgently and Bokuto's arm comes up like an iron bar that locks across his hips. Shoves him back into the locker, when seeking fingers press up hard and Akaashi sways dangerously, legs threatening to give out. 

Irritation nips at the heels of dull pleasure. Bokuto has always been loud, unabashed and unashamed; he'll work relentlessly to drag out every muffled, bitten back sigh from behind Akaashi's lips too. 

(Bokuto finds delight in it, a kind of validation that speaks more to pleasure than ego, and it's one that Akaashi finds himself loathe to give. One of them is selfish, but he's not sure who it is.)

Tipping his head back, Bokuto's throat opens up to take him deeper, and this time Akaashi can't help when he curls forward, mouth opening in a silent gasp. Pleasure spirals so rapidly it leaves him trembling, heat coiling tight in his groin. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Bokuto abruptly shove his other hand down his own shorts. 

Sees the flex of that muscled forearm, and envisions a hand squeezing tight around Bokuto's cock in counterpart. Feels the urge to reach down, sliding his fingers down Bokuto’s chest and warm belly, to wrap his own firm grip around-- 

His hips jerk forward and Bokuto gags, throat tightening around the head of Akaashi's cock and this time Akaashi whimpers, fingers digging into Bokuto's back as the intensity of the pressure sends his head reeling. He hears Bokuto start to stroke himself off— feels the groan that reverberates through his throat like he enjoys hearing Akaashi take his pleasure. 

It shouldn't stir something in him, but it does. He's keenly aware of the way Bokuto's arm eases off his hips, as if satisfied to just hear his voice. The way Bokuto thumbs over the jut of his hipbone with something closer to affection than arousal and reckless indulgence has Akaashi's heart skipping a beat.

Part of him still wishes, so hard, that they might work. Maybe this time. Maybe—

Heaving for every breath now, he gasps out "Move," and jerks at Bokuto's shirt half-heartedly, trying to pull him away. Bokuto's hand drags down one thigh, with fingertips that sink into his skin with enough intention that Akaashi knows Bokuto would kiss along the bruises that later bloom, if he could. "I'm gonna, Koutarou— I'm going to—"

Then Bokuto swallows, pushes down as far as he can, deftly flicking his tongue across the join between Akaashi's cock and his balls and Akaashi curls all the way over as he comes, choking on his own breath.

He blinks back to awareness, still braced against the locker in a position that almost cradles Bokuto's head between his lap and his chest and the intimacy of it burns. 

It's an effort not to jerk back. 

Akaashi knows that Bokuto finds comfort in the planes of his body, finds a way to stave off starvation in the familiarity of sweat-damp skin. And to the constant pull of Bokuto's gravitational force Akaashi is drawn like a moth to a flame, irresistibly, and he yields and burns around the edges willingly, hopelessly, until, _until—_

Bokuto draws away, licks his lips with a grin tugging at the corners of his reddened mouth and Akaashi hauls himself back onto his feet, stomach sinking as he already finds it within himself to regret. 

"That was good, right?" Bokuto asks. He carelessly wipes his hand with the end of his shirt, leaving a tell tale streak of his own climax. 

He sounds too eager, Akaashi realises, and it's an oddly bleak thought. That Bokuto sees beginnings, fresh-starts when all Akaashi can think is, _not again_. "It was fine," he says instead, as he suffers the indignity of tucking himself back in his pants. "Congratulations again, on winning the match, Bokuto-san." 

He turns as he says that, bends over with the guise of picking up his abandoned shirt, so he doesn't have to see the way Bokuto's face fall. 

He tells himself that this is kinder, and ignores the voice in his head that asks, _for who?_

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading.


End file.
